


Prisoner's Dilemma

by danwriteskink



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bystanders shout encouragement to the rapist, Carl Elias Noncons John Reese - Freeform, Choking/Asphyxiation, Clothed Sex, Forced Deepthroat, Forced to give oral sex, Forced to swallow come, Held Down, M/M, Prison Sex, Rape as an assertion of social status, Victim Visibly Disheveled After Rape, Victim's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-29 16:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19404079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danwriteskink/pseuds/danwriteskink
Summary: Elias wants John to understand that this situation will be beneficial for both of them.





	Prisoner's Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bixbobeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixbobeau/gifts).



John thinks he's weathering this situation fairly well: Donnelly's interrogation is hasn't yielded anything useful; Carter is doing an amazing job of skirting the truth while conducting ruthless interviews; and, somewhere outside of Rikers Island, Harold is working to get John free. Keeping to the cover identity isn't easy under all of this stress, but John's a professional and he knows he can sustain a cover under questioning. Right now, his biggest risk is getting shanked in the yard by Byron and his Aryan Nation friends. 

In the prison yard, a giant of a man – quiet, calm and terrifying – stops Byron's punch with one huge hand. He leads John to a table crowded with men, and when they clear, John see Elias seated at the head, snug in a windbreaker, a genial expression on his face. He looks comfortable, John thinks, surrounded by his men, favouring them with an easy smile. A good leader. A people person. 

At John's approach, he waves a hand, which John takes as an invitation to sit. He realises it's no such thing when the man beside him pushes down on John's shoulders. John buckles, and it's only half an act: the man is massive, a wall of meat. He stands behind John now, holding him in place with two enormous hands like shovels, heavy on John's shoulders. 

"Life does throw some funny twists at us, doesn't it, John?" Elias says, still sitting, his hands resting easy on his thighs. "Who would have thought we'd ever be in this position?" 

John watches him carefully, tries to get a handle on his mood, and what this meeting is about. Elias always has a plan – hell, he has twenty plans – and he won't make a move without a long consideration of the consequences. Elias exists in a grey area as far as John is concerned: not an enemy, but not exactly an ally, either. 

"What's happening, Elias?" he asks, eventually. There's a weird vibe to this gathering, and it is a gathering: men are crowding around the table, forming a circle of bodies that blocks the light. Nobody says anything. In his peripheral vision, John can see Byron has drawn close, standing side by side with members of the Bloods and Trinitarios. Elias is a peace-bringer, apparently. 

"What's happening is that we both have an opportunity, John. You need to convince a Federal Agent that you're a hapless investment banker. I can bolster that identity for you, and gain a little social capital in the process." 

John's skin starts to crawl. This won't end well. Elias stands, and an excited murmur passes through the crowd, but all he does is put his hands on the arms of several men, and push them gently apart. They shuffle sideways obediently. This opens the circle into a horseshoe with the gap facing the array of cameras constantly monitoring the prison yard. John can see the prison guards by the doors, all carefully staring away from the yard, some engrossed in the phones, others in an examination of the mortar between the bricks of the wall. 

Elias stands in front of him, smiling. "There," he says. "Can't go to all this trouble and not maximise our audience." He reaches out to cup John's chin and John jerks away in reflex. The man behind him clamps down on John's shoulders, fingers squeezing hard into his muscles. It's a strong hold. John could break it but it would take moves outside the purview of his cover ID. John Warren doesn't have a lot of judo. So he kneels and he waits. Elias thanks the man with a nod, and his hand strokes John's face gently. 

John's not an idiot. He knows how these things go. It's not even the first time he's been forced to do something sexual he wasn't into. Kara liked to dangle rape as a motivating threat. Or an exit strategy: men tended to forget she was in the room when they were tearing into John's ass. He can take what Elias is planning to dish out. Then he looks sideways at those cameras, thinks about Carter inside the prison, about Harold sitting at his monitor in the library, and his stomach flips at the idea that they will be witness to this, and what that could do to them. 

He had survived all those things before because he didn't care that Kara saw him in pain or vulnerable and violated. He never had to worry about her feelings, just as she never worried about his emotional state when it was her turn at the receiving end. He doesn't have that safety net anymore. His mind starts to spin, grappling with this new understanding, one where his wellbeing is not just his own business. 

Elias crouches to meet John's eyes. "Remember now: John Warren has probably never been treated this way. John Warren is terrified out of his mind. John Warren is going to comply with all of my instructions, because he wants to survive." When he stands up again, he shrugs his shoulders a few times, getting comfortable on his feet, and nods to his henchman. 

Behind John, the goon puts one dinner plate hand on the crown of John's head and tilts it to a more agreeable angle. John struggles briefly in the man's grip, thrashing, and then, according to John Warren's abilities, he sags. Hands occupied, the goon holds John's arms to his sides with strong knees. He's done this before: it's a practiced move that prevents John from swatting at Elias with his hands.

There has to be a way out of this, John thinks, there has to be a way he can make Elias stop without blowing his cover. He watches Elias's hands on the buttons of his own jumpsuit, and his mind blanks out. 

Elias leaves the jumpsuit on his shoulders, though it's completely open, and he pushes his briefs down, gets his cock free and comfortable. It's still soft, his cock, but it sits thick and heavy in a thatch of hair. Not the longest John has seen before, but broad and workmanlike. Around him, the men go quiet, waiting. 

"This won't be pleasant, but it's to help you, John. I want you to remember that," Elias says. God, his voice is so kind, so benevolent, that if John closed his eyes, he wouldn't believe the man is stroking himself as he speaks. He watches Elias's cock start to fill, swelling with each sweep of his palm. "When you're out and free, remember how you got there, and who you left behind." 

In one last, desperate attempt to circumvent what's about to happen, John says, "Come on. We don't have to do this." He doesn't have to feign his apprehension; he's pressed against the henchman's legs, he can't move his arms, he can't look away. His voice sounds desperate and small in the open air of the yard, and someone in the crowd jeers, imitates the nervous rise at the end of John's plea, makes it sound like the whine of a dog. 

"We don't do it because we haveta," another man says, and they all laugh, jostling each other, shifting their feet on the concrete. John feels the tension in the pack rising. This is an ugly crowd, an angry crowd, a crowd waiting for their entertainment. 

Elias looks out at the men, and for a moment, John sees the schoolteacher in his face. "You boys think this is some thrill, don't you? Just one guy forcing himself on another. Happens every day in this place. But with John, here, it's a little more than that." His cock is hard now, the skin dark and angry, the tip gleaming. His hand keeps sweeping the length of it, skimming the head, catching each bead of moisture and spreading it. "In Rome," he says, and there's a groan from the mass of bodies surrounding them, who have obviously heard enough classical history during Elias's incarceration. He smiles, indulgent, and lets go of his cock, smears his damp fingers along John's lips, pushing them in despite John's clenched jaw. "In Rome, being fucked this way was a disgrace. A punishment, a weakness." 

He's disarming John like a bomb, whittling away the threat of the Man in the Suit. John knows that it helps him keep his cover, but at the same time, there is nothing generous in Elias's act. There's more benefit for him than there is for John: look, he got the Man in the Suit on his knees, he face-fucked the Man in the Suit. Don't mess with Elias. 

Elias's fingers run along the surface of John's teeth, and John can taste him, salt and bitter where it seeps through the gaps. He meets Elias's eyes for a moment and sees just how cold they are, just how much he intends to make John pay for his incarceration, no matter what he claims about forgiveness or enjoying Harold's company at chess. 

"Open your mouth, John," he says. "Or I'll have Cliff force it open, though I can't say what that will do for your dental work."

Cliff, the henchman, puts a thick, blunt finger in each corner of John's mouth. The skin of each fingertip is rough and callused, whorled with grime. John isn't sure he could actually bite through them, or whether Cliff would even notice. He opens his mouth, and feels Cliff's fingers, thick and dry, between his teeth.

Elias smiles. "Just a safeguard," he says. "I don't have time to indulge petty vengeances." And it's difficult to rule the roost when your men have seen your cock bitten off, John reasons. The distraction, the analysis helps a little, while the spit starts to pool in the front of his mouth. You've survived worse, he reminds himself. You're not even going to bleed.

Now that John's mouth is open, Elias explores freely with his fingers. John tastes salt and precome across his tongue, feels an experimental push at the back of his throat. He gags on it, perhaps a little more dramatically than is needed, but if there was ever a time to claim boundaries, this is probably it. 

Elias raises an eyebrow and pushes again, harder this time, and John's choking splutter is entirely sincere. And appreciated by the crowd, who cheer and offer encouragement to Elias.

"Give it to him!" someone shouts, and John's pretty sure that it's Byron from the Ayran Brotherhood. Elias gives John a wry, knowing smile, as if he and John are somehow elevated above that kind of riff-raff. Then he steps in close with his cock in hand. 

John doesn't realise until just then that he's panicking. Even as he tries to rear away, tries to throw Cliff off, he's not sure why he's freaking out. He's suffered worse – so much worse, this won't even hurt much – and Elias is right, in a way. This will help his situation. This would never happen to the Man in the Suit, who can defend himself, who is capable and unafraid. And it's happening. Elias's cock, thick and unyielding, goes into his mouth, rests on his tongue. John tastes soap and the salt of skin.

There's a moment of stillness. John blinks. His eyes are streaming, blurring the figure in front of him: the orange of Elias's jumpsuit, the white of his undershirt, the pink of his belly. Then Elias sighs, rests his hands on John's head, and begins to move. 

John's mouth is wide open, held that way by Cliff's fingers, and Elias fucks into it with a steady stroke. It takes a minute for John to find the rhythm, so he can grab a breath now and then. Even so, once he's managed a few gasps, Elias changes the pattern, thrusts in deep just as John is breathing in, and the whole thing becomes a messy, gagging frenzy. Drool starts to spill down John's chin, and soon he can feel it soaking into the collar of his undershirt, warm at first, then clammy. 

John has lost track of the time, which says a lot for the situation, given that he's practised at counting the minutes as they pass, even under torture. Something about this process is wrong, something about this process won't let him slip into the comfortable blur of that nothing space where all he has to do is note the passing time. He realises what it is when he feels something hard against his groin, something he's been rutting against while Elias fucks his mouth. When it moves against his own cock, he recognises the soft slip-on shoes they give prisoners. He's grinding on Elias's shoe. 

Elias stops, pulls out of John's mouth and allows him a moment to recover, a delighted expression on his face. "Oh, John. If only I knew this is what it would take to win you over." John tries to close his mouth, tries to at least wipe it with the back of his hand, but he can't reach, not with his arms clamped to his sides. 

Elias bends, avoids the ribbons of spit hanging from John's chin, and reaches inside John's jumpsuit, past the rough orange fabric. John knows what he's going to do, steels himself not to react, but when Elias takes his nipple there's no way to completely hide his response. Even with his mouth shut and his body held still, there must be something in his expression that gives away the little jolt of pleasure he feels. It's clear that Elias sees it. 

"You do not cease to surprise, John," he says, rolling John's nipple, rubbing John's cock through the coarse jumpsuit. John's body, thrumming with adrenaline, can't help but react to this pleasurable sensation, and his hips jerk forward uncontrollably. Elias closes his hand briefly over John's cock with something more avid in his expression, and John is torn between wanting to buck into his grip and wanting to break the man's neck. Neither are good options, but his treacherous survivor's brain tells him it would do no harm to get off on this. He ignores that impulse, holds himself scrupulously still. After a few jerks, Elias lets go and stands again. 

When it reappears in his vision, Elias's cock is harder, pressed against his belly, showing his arousal at John's unwilling response. Breathing more heavily, he shoves into John's mouth again, accelerating quickly to a jackhammer rate, his hands cupping the back of John's head.

He keeps his leg jammed against John's crotch, and now and then he kicks forward, giving the impression that John is humping his shin like an over-eager dog. The crowd loves this, screaming and hooting. John catches a glimpse from his peripheral vision, and he sees that more than one man has his cock in hand now, stroking themselves, probably imagining themselves in Elias's position. 

The first time Elias gets all the way down, the first time his belly presses to John's forehead, John's hips give a nervous stutter. His mouth is wide open, his lips are stretched by Cliff's rough fingers, and with every thrust of Elias's cock, John hears himself gulp and choke as it pushes into his throat. Each breath is salt and precome and sweat. He tries to relax, tries to let it happen, but there's not enough air, and his vision is filling with static and he can't stop fighting it, he can't. 

Elias moans, and around him, the men howl. Something warm hits John's face and for a blissful moment he thinks it's over but Elias's cock is still hard in his throat, still moving. It's someone else's come, he realises. All he can see is Elias's belly; all he can taste is Elias's cock. And this will never end. John can't even remember why he's here anymore. The whole world has closed down to this moment, to darkness and shouts, to salt and panic. 

Now he can't see any light at all: Elias leans his full weight against John, fingers hard on John's scalp as he holds him close. 

"John," he says, once, and then John hears him crying out when he comes, as John's mouth fills with it. 

There's a long moment as they stay joined like that, as Elias's cock pulses in John's throat. All John hears is the hammer of his heart, and the thump of his pulse in his aching head, then there's a burst of unwanted pleasure in his own body as he orgasms too, cock pressed hard against Elias's shoe. It takes the last of his oxygen, and the darkness rushes in, tinged with red, tasting of Elias. 

The next thing he knows, his face is against the cement floor and the cold is seeping through his clothes. He takes a great, whooping breath in, then chokes on come. 

Elias is seated again, his jumpsuit buttoned up, in low discussion with Cliff. He doesn't look at John, doesn't acknowledge his existence. The crowd is dispersing, albeit with disappointed mutters that Elias won't share, though nobody dares lay a finger on John, not with Cliff watching. 

Get up, John tells himself. Get up, soldier, get to cover. His limbs don't respond at first, but by the time the guards have meandered over, he can clumsily get to his hands and knees. He heaves, then, gagging up come, spitting it on the ground, finally wiping his mouth, finally breathing more clearly. The guards haul him to his feet and drag him towards the door. Halfway across the yard, he finds his footing enough that he can stumble along between them. 

Inside, John gets a brief glimpse of Donnelly, face aghast and filled with a reluctant sympathy, and he knows he's going home today. He can't think straight, not with the taste of Elias still in his mouth, but the idea of home makes his eyes stream suddenly. He swipes the back of his hand across his face, tries again to get his feet properly underneath him. His soft shoes slip on the polished linoleum and one of the guards has to prop him up again. 

Carter looks from John to Donnelly and back, with the kind of understanding John would expect from another soldier. Then she says, loud and crisp, "Get this man to the infirmary now!" The guards obey without question, and as they move John down a corridor, he hears her again, this time to Donnelly. "You better hope he doesn't sue." 

In the infirmary, a bored medic takes John through a checklist, offers him prophylactic antivirals, and, at John's request, a bottle of mouthwash. 

John's still rinsing his mouth when Carter taps on the wall by the door, since there's only curtains in the infirmary. he gestures her into his cubicle with his head, while he sluices the green stuff around his mouth for the fifth time. Then he leans over the sink and spits. 

"I won't ask if you're okay," she says. "Not here." 

John nods, and takes another mouthful, swishes hard. His jumpsuit is still stuck to him where he came in his pants, and his groin is marked with dark streaks from Elias's shoe. He'd like to take a shower and change his clothes, but he doubts they'll let him. He spits again, watches it slide down the drain. He aches all over. 

Carter passes him a couple of paper towels. "Donnelly's rushing your release paperwork. I think I convinced him you're the litigious type." 

"Thanks." John doesn't trust his voice for much more than one word at a time. He hates how hoarse it is, and he suspects it will shake if he says much more. He wipes his mouth, throws the crumpled ball of paper in the trash, then sits down on the narrow gurney. 

This is the cost of the work, he reminds himself, looking down at his hands in his lap. This work is so much better than what he was doing before, this work does good in the world. And it wasn't so bad, was it? He's suffered worse in the name of a corrupt government. This small indignity is worth it, if it means he gets to save lives. 

Carter sits on the end of the gurney, distant enough that he doesn't have to worry that she's about to hug him or give him comfort he can't handle. He has a sudden craving for the bite of cheap whiskey, to feel that cleansing burn on his raw throat. He turns the mouthwash bottle in his hands and reads the ingredients: alcohol free, of course. 

"Here." Carter passes him a stick of gum. He takes it and unwraps it, folds it into his mouth. The peppermint stings, and while it's not whiskey, it feels clean and cool. 

"I'll talk to Harold," Carter says. "We're going to be fine, so don't spend any energy worrying about us. What you gotta do now, John, is keep upright and get out of here." 

John puts the bottle of mouthwash down on the bed and rubs a hand across his forehead. "I can do that," he says, though it hurts his throat to speak.

The worst is over now, he tells himself, and puts his feet down against the linoleum. It isn't completely true, but it's true enough to get him moving. He has a team now. He can't convince himself he deserves good people like that, but he knows that he cares about them. What happened today is the price of keeping his people safe, and he'll pay that over and over without question.


End file.
